The Chronicles of Chiswick
by BlinovitchLimitationField
Summary: Canon-friendly interlude between TNotD & the 50th. Eleven is stranded in 2019 Chiswick — just as Twelve planned. Clara knows too much about his future… Donna's remembering too much about his past… and he's doomed to forget this ever happened. 11/Clara (Whoufflé) with appearances by Donna, Wilf, Jack, Sarah Jane, Martha, Mickey, Craig, Sophie, and Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All.
1. Chapter 1

"_Just as Clara's learning to have a proper old  
crush on him, suddenly he's Malcolm Tucker!"  
- Steven Moffat -  
_

* * *

**OCTOBER 2019 - CHISWICK, LONDON**

* * *

"Oi, Clara, _there_ you are! Sorry about the TARDIS… been sulking since Trenzalore, but I'm sure it'll come out of the carpet. Say, did George get a new sofa?"

Clara's heard the phrase _that blew my mind_ before, but until this moment, she'd never realized just how accurate it could be.

She has no idea how long she's been standing there in her front hallway, staring open-mouthed at the dead man currently standing in her lounge.

If you'd asked her an hour ago, she would have sworn she remembered him perfectly. Now, she knows how wrong she was, how badly the passing years have blurred and bleached her image of him in her mind.

But yes, _yes_, that's just how his voice should sound… that smoky, posh staccato he can plunge into thunder at a moment's notice. _Those_ are his real eyes, light-mixed and changeable as opals. He's being restored to glorious Technicolor inside her head, and she doesn't seem able to do anything but gape at him, her senses snatching greedily at every rediscovered detail and hoarding them for later.

"Clara?" the Doctor says tentatively, taking a step forward, his hand outstretched. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

She swallows a hysterical titter, sternly reminds herself to get her priorities straight. There's the universe to consider.

She waits until she's certain that she's gotten her voice perfectly calm and even before she speaks. "Doctor, you're crossing your timeline right now. I know that's bad, so… hadn't you better go?"

"I've showed up last week _again_?" he winces, wringing his hands. "Er, there's just one, _slightly_ awkward boo-boo. As I mentioned, sulky TARDIS; she's gone and ditched me. Suppose I could just hide upstairs for a bit until I'm gone…"

He makes it three steps towards the stairs before he freezes.

"Hold on a tick," he frowns, pointing. "Comfy new sofa wasn't there last week."

Clara hopes she doesn't look as panicked as she feels. "Of course it was!"

"I have a keen eye for detail, Clara, and that sofa was most assuredly _not_ there last time." He's on the prowl now, twirling around the room. "And neither was that table, or _that_ one, or those chairs, or that window, and the fireplace was on the other side, and…"

"_Penny in the air_…" Clara mutters.

The Doctor rushes towards her, clamping his hands on her shoulders, his eyes wild. "Clara, this is a whole different room! This is a whole different room in a… a… a whole different house!"

He flings himself at the kitchen door, giving it an obscene lick and smacking his lips. "Last week did _not_ have this funny sort of prawn-y aftertaste."

"Doctor," Clara tries. "Timestream, remember?"

But it's too late. The Doctor has gone unnaturally still, truly _seeing_ her for the first time since he's arrived.

The silence that falls seems endless.

Waves of emotions crash over his face: horror, sorrow, guilt. He pushes his hair back, swallows hard.

"Clara," he begins, his voice slow and pained, "Please tell me I haven't done _this_ again. If I've left you waiting for twelve years…"

"_Twelve years_?" Clara sputters. "You think it's been _twelve years_? I'm taking that night cream straight back to the chemist."

That shocks a chuckle out of him, and he tilts his head, examining her face. "How old _are_ you, then?"

She arches an eyebrow. "How old do you _think_ I am?"

"Not falling for _that_ one again," the Doctor declares. "Still got the bite marks from Joan of Arc."

She can't help laughing, and he beams in a way that cramps her heart.

"Can I hug you?" she blurts, then bites her lip. "I mean, if it won't short out the time differential o-or reverse the polarity of the neutron flow…"

He sweeps her up and spins her before crushing her to him, his fingers threading through her hair to cup the back of her head.

She's trying so hard to record _every single second_ of this for later. She's lived a million lifetimes, been to both ends of creation… and nothing has ever left her quite as awestruck and grateful as getting to be _here_, to do _this_ again.

She will not be the one to let go. She rests her head against his chest, eyes closed, gulping in greedy lungfuls of his scent.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, kissing the top of her head.

"For what?"

"Whatever boneheaded thing I did that made you leave me." He tucks his fingers beneath her jaw, lifting her gaze to his. "How long has it been?"

_Oh, God, the look in his eyes… she can't, she can't, she can't…_

So Clara does what she does best: hide it all inside a joke.

"Who says I left? Maybe he got sick of me," she says archly. "Maybe I sassed him one too many times and he chucked me out over Cardiff."

"_He_," the Doctor frowns. "You've said… _he_. More than once..."

Clara pales. The Doctor's moved away from her again, stabbing at the air with his Thinking Finger.

"I regenerate, don't I? Into someone so different you don't even think of us as the same person."

"I _know_ you're the same person," she insists. "Who knows that better than me? It was just… different."

His eyes narrow. "_Valeyard_ different?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Doctor, you haven't got anything to worry about. It's just… you know. You changed, as you always do. He... _you_... said Jammie Dodgers were like stale strawberry bogeys."

The Doctor looks absolutely scandalized.

"He was just... more like a… well... a _mentor_, I guess."

The Doctor drops bonelessly into an armchair, plucking a pen off the side table and glaring at it. "A _mentor_."

"Look, you know we can't keep talking about this!"

He rolls the pen between his fingers, mouth set in a tight line. "He hurt you."

She blinks. "I never said that."

"Which is a rather different sentence than _No, he didn't_."

"He's a good man," Clara insists. "It was just my time to go."

"Did we ever — I mean, you and _me_, before… " the Doctor blurts, but snaps his mouth shut.

"I can't answer any more questions about your future, Doctor. You know that. Honestly, I've told you way too much already..."

"_Mentor_," he pouts, crossing his arms.

"You were my best friend, you know," Clara says, perching on the arm of his chair. "I haven't seen you in… well, a while… and I thought I'd never see you again. If you're stuck here for a bit, couldn't we, I don't know... go to the chippy, take a walk? Talk about something else?"

He nods, reaching out to take her hand, bringing it to his lips…

"You've got a _tattoo_," he sputters in shock, turning her wrist up for a better look. "In _Gallifreyan_?"

"I lost a bet," she smiles. "Very long story. It says something rude, I'm told."

The Doctor pulls out his glasses, arranging them on his nose and having a better look. "It's not rude. It just says _Time Lady._"

"But that makes no sense, why would he — _oh!_"

The Doctor's pulled her down into his lap, one arm winding around her waist while the other holds her inner wrist up for his inspection.

"Well, I suppose, uh, you can probably… s-see… better…" Her voice rises to a squeak on the last word, when he rests his chin atop her shoulder.

"It's an _ambigram_," the Doctor says, fascinated.

"A what now?"

"A message that says different things depending on how it's turned." He gently maneuvers her arm. "If I turn your wrist just a bit, look. See? Now it says 'Blue Box'."

She peers at it, but sighs. "Sorry, I can't — I've forgotten almost all the Gallifreyan I knew."

"The _Time Lady_ part is strange, too," he continues, his voice dropping to the lower register that makes heat pool in her stomach. "Are you certain future me was just your _mentor_, Clara?"

He drags his thumb slowly across the design, seemingly oblivious to the effect it has on Clara's breathing. "The literal translation here is _Woman Time Lord_, which is odd; there's already a word in Gallifreyan for Time Lady. Perhaps he had to swap the words to fit the ambigram?"

He bends his lips closer to her captive ear, drops his voice to a purr. "Swap them back, and it becomes _Time Lord's Woman_."

Their eyes lock and hold, the moment lingering...

Until she bursts into laughter.

"Oh, _God_," Clara's giggling so hard now she's nearly choking. "Sorry, sorry, but if you _knew_ him... that's so _not_ — I promise — it's just _not_. I bet if you keep moving my wrist, it turns into something like _Woman That Time Lord Wishes Would Shut Her Blasted Sandgrown Cakehole_."

The Doctor's grip on her wrist tightens. "He talks to you like that?"

He's hurting her just a tiny bit, but the protectiveness is so lovely she can't bring herself to mind.

They're back in spoiler territory, though, and she's rapidly gaining respect for how River has to deal with this _all the time_.

So she does what River would do — she changes the subject.

"What does the rest of it say?" Clara asks. "I'm curious now."

He doesn't want to let it go, she can tell, but he angles her wrist to a new position anyway. "Hmm, that's _sleep chamber_, and that one's — well, that's a little hard to translate. It'd be _the clear light of the silver sun_, I suppose, although…"

"I've forgotten _almost_ all the Gallifreyan," Clara interrupts. "Not so far gone I've forgotten my _name_, thank you. I suppose it was the closest thing to what 'Clara' means."

He tries it out, whispering it against her hair. "It suits you."

"Wait... does that mean this part of the ambigram says _Clara's bedroom_?" she chuckles. "Cheeky."

His face flushes beet-red. "It's, ah, prepositional."

"_In_ my bedroom, then. Still cheeky."

"It could mean _guest room_," he offers weakly.

_Guest room._ Clara's face pales. "And the bit before was 'blue box', you said. _Blue box in Clara's guest room?_"

"Something to do with the TARDIS, I wonder?"

"He _knew_," Clara whispers. "He knew, of _course_ he did — he _remembered_ this. He knew you'd come here, knew I'd see you one more time..."

She touches the tattoo lightly. "Doctor, these have to be _instructions_... a message he's left for you. The blue box isn't a metaphor — he gave me one the last time I saw him. He said he'd be back for it some day... I just didn't realize which him he meant."

They share a long, shocked look before the Doctor turns back to the message.

"Suppose we'd better see what the rest says, then. This symbol designates importance, and then there's…"

The Doctor pauses, scarlet creeping up his neck. "I-I'm afraid I can't read this next bit."

It's perfectly obvious that he's lying, and Clara's eyes narrow. "Perhaps the ink blurred over time?"

"Clever girl. I'm sure you're right. Moving on..." the Doctor taps the circles of ink with his finger. "He insults my intelligence, orders me to deliberately create a fixed point in time, insults my intelligence _again_, orders me to save someone, compares my physique to a marionette made of toothpicks…"

Her arm is bent so awkwardly now that she has to duck under her elbow to look at him. "All right, _that_ stuff actually sounds like him. _Now_ do you believe me about the 'Woman Time Lord' thing?"

He nods. "And that's where it loops back to the beginning. Something about this _itches_…"

"Maybe the start of the message is earlier in the loop — maybe you're meant to save a Time Lady?"

"None left," he shrugs. "It must be cipher, or a code, or…"

"Well, the last part that made no sense turned out to be a proper name. What if it's a name, like mine was?"

The Doctor stops. Gapes. Seizes her by the back of the neck and smacks a kiss above her eyebrows.

"Woman Time Lord," he marvels. "Woman. Time. Lord. It works _twice_, Clara, _twice_!"

"That's... great?" she says, having absolutely no clue what he's on about.

"You lived through the Roman Empire a few dozen times, Clara… what's 'Woman Time Lord' in Latin?"

"It's, ah… oh, I'm going to muck the grammar up, but…" she screws her eyes tightly closed. "Something like… domina tempus nobilis?"

The Doctor grins from ear to ear. "_Donna Temple-Noble_."


	2. Chapter 2

_Donna Temple-Noble._

Three centuries and a new face later, the sight of her still burns.

The Doctor has mentally prepared himself for her age, but Donna actually looks fantastic... by human standards, possibly even better than when she'd traveled with him.

She's glowing with the extended youth only available to the wealthy... trim and fit in perfectly-tailored casuals, her makeup understated but flawless, the old fire of her hair painstakingly maintained by professionals.

But when the Doctor thinks _my beautiful Donna_, the vision in his mind is of a runny-nosed, red-faced temp from Chiswick, sobbing for the Ood.

To him, in that moment, she'd never been so stunningly beautiful.

So human, so raw, so _awake_.

His Donna.

According to the annoyingly vague message he's left himself, he's meant to save her… but it's rather hard to tell from _what_ at the moment.

He's leaning on the fence around Turnham Green, his eyes on the Waitrose across the street. Donna's just outside the entrance, carrying on an extremely boisterous mobile conversation that's earning her a few sniffs and dirty looks from the other shoppers.

"Oi! Eyes front, toff, you'll smudge your Manolos," Donna calls out to the last of these, and the Doctor can't help the fond grin that splits his face.

Donna finishes her call and heads inside... and again, the Doctor wonders why she needs his help at all. She looks great, she seems happy, and her current problems seem to involve the acquisition of organic produce.

He ducks inside the park, finding a bench with a decent view of the shop's exit and pulling out the tablet computer Clara had let him borrow.

He's missed a message from her: _Find out anything interesting?_

_Nothing yet_, he replies.

Rule One: the Doctor lies.

In truth, he's found out all sorts of interesting things.

Just... not about Donna.

* * *

Clara, poor girl, has tried so hard to keep his future a secret.

But she's no River Song, and she's been leaking spoilers everywhere.

It's not just the things Clara unintentionally blabs, although she's dropped a few choice bombs so far. It's the things she _doesn't_ say, the words that make her flinch, the way she looks at him.

And just the way she _looks_, full stop.

After ten years with him on the TARDIS, Amy and Rory had looked noticeably older than the age they claimed to be on earth. The Doctor still remembers the sinking feeling he'd gotten at their party, watching Amy mingle with her former schoolmates. Next to her, they'd looked baby-faced and chubby-cheeked… next to them, he'd finally noticed the fine lines creeping in at the edges of her eyes.

Clara, however, looks just the age she should be… and that means she couldn't have traveled with him more than a year or two.

In other words, he doesn't have much time left.

And he knows it's even less than that, because of the damned _pronouns_.

Not once has Clara mentioned an adventure with _him_ — _this_ him — that he doesn't already know about. It's all stuff she did with the _next_ one, the one he is secretly starting to resent.

Worse, there's the photograph.

He's been conspiring with Angie and Artie about Clara's 25th birthday for weeks. They've been planning a really grand, blowout affair… something awesome.

But then he'd come here, to this time, and seen the framed picture on Clara's mantlepiece.

It's a nice photo, really, if you don't look at it too closely. Clara's flanked by her father and the Maitlands, all smiling together in the Maitland kitchen.

There's a few haphazard streamers taped up, paper party hats… one of those generic, store-bought cakes that never tastes of much.

It has twenty-five candles stuck in it, and Clara's smile does not reach her eyes.

In theory, the Doctor knows he could have lived for centuries before Clara's birthday arrived.

But in his hearts, he knows that isn't what is going to happen.

He's never admitted it to Clara, but every time she leaves him to spend the week with the Maitlands, he immediately jumps forward to the next Wednesday and picks her right back up again.

He will burn through the weeks before her birthday in a few short days.

_He'll be gone in less than a week._

The cruelty of it doesn't escape him. Not long ago, he was hiding on a cloud, too distraught over the Ponds to function. He might have welcomed a rebirth then, a reset of feelings and personality, but now...

* * *

But now, he's being tortured by three little words.

Clara won't tell him _why_ she stopped traveling with him, or when, or how. The most enlightening clue she's dropped so far is an offhand comment about being a "third wheel", but she'd refused to explain.

He knows she's right. Rationally, logically, he knows that Clara _shouldn't_ tell him anything.

After all, she's only answered one of his questions so far, and that answer is driving him insane.

It had been just as he was leaving to track down Donna. He'd used Clara's restroom, his eye falling on a cluster of prescription medication bottles on the shelf above her sink.

Two different antidepressants and a sleep aid. Judging from the dates and refills remaining, things she'd been taking regularly for months, if not longer.

He'd stood there, pill bottle in hand, while all the little details he'd seen but not _seen_ washed over him.

The calendar marked with nothing but an upcoming dentist appointment. The freezer full of ready meals, the barren refrigerator. The machine that brews single-serving tea pods. The empty fireplace with no firewood in sight, the lone toothbrush, the light coating of dust on all the seats in the lounge except the one directly in front of the television.

He'd added it all up, and despised the sum.

And when he'd walked out the door, and Clara had said "goodbye" like she expected him to never return, it had exploded out of him.

"Were you all right? _Are_ you all right?" he'd demanded, swiveling on her front walk to face her. "You can tell me _that_ much, at least."

"I was all right," Clara had promised.

The Doctor had smiled... or rather, he'd started to.

"... I had Jack," Clara had finished, shutting the door between them.

And the smile had slid right off the Doctor's face.

_I had Jack._

_I. Had. Jack._

* * *

The Doctor doesn't need to ask which Jack she's referring to.

There's only one Jack who knows exactly how it feels to be the third-wheel companion.

To die a million times in the name of the Doctor.

To make the ultimate sacrifice only to be left behind.

Big-hearted, loyal, protective Jack. Of course he'd be there for Clara.

The Doctor sternly tells himself that he ought to be grateful... or at least, ought to be glad that Clara had someone there for her who understood.

It's just... well... he can't help wishing that it was anyone but _Jack_.

Captain Jack Harkness, evaporating the universe's knickers with a single hello. Muscles and dimples and shiny white teeth, carved of charisma and oozing sex.

In his own unconventional way, Jack is a healer. He has that rare kind of confidence that can be shared with others: _I could have anyone, and I want you... so obviously, you must be amazing. _

And the Doctor knows _exactly_ how Jack would convince a downtrodden Clara that she was still beautiful and desirable and wanted.

_I had Jack_, Clara had said... and suddenly, it's the most important thing in the world to remember _exactly how _she'd said it, what specific smile she'd had on, the precise look in her eyes.

Because the Doctor knows that he's too proud to ever bring it up to her again, too afraid to ask the questions that are buzzing and stinging inside his head. It'll eat him alive, but he'll pretend he never heard it... or cared too little to bother remembering it.

He thinks of all the times he's touched Clara. Chaste forehead kisses, friendly hugs, tiny caresses. He's savored each one, the little memories proudly polished and displayed in his mind, a chronicle of his hesitant progress towards... well, he's never been quite sure about _that_, but it delights and terrifies him all at once.

It all feels so _silly_ now, so prissy and inadequate. He's never felt quite so old and so much like a naive schoolboy all at once.

The bench beneath him trembles, and he snaps out of his reverie to see who has sat beside him.

"You stalkin' me, no-brows?" Donna asks.

Right. _Right_. He'd meant to be watching the grocer door, and now he'd... _blimey_.

"No stalking, sorry to disappoint. Just sitting." He gestures at the nearby monument. "_Love_ an obelisk."

"Oi, how stupid do you think I am? Screamin' purple frock coat and a bow tie don't exactly _blend in_, mister. If you're another long-lost 'relative' hoping to cash in, don't bother. I've heard every sob story under the sun."

"All right, fair cop, I was following you just a bit. No harm meant, I promise. It's just... you looked familiar, and I was trying to figure out how I knew you before I said hello."

Donna looks skeptical, and he braces himself for an onslaught before her face suddenly softens.

"You know, it's weird, but there's something familiar about you, too." Donna tilts her head, her face screwing up in concentration. "You a bit older than you look, then?"

He laughs. "Much."

"Did your hair used to go...?" Donna waves her hand vertically over her forehead.

He sits up straighter, eyes widening in surprise. "Yes, actually."

"Wait... are you the doctor?"

His whole body spasms in dismay, but Donna's still talking.

"Had a funny spell a few years back. All fuzzy now, but I know they had a doctor out. Used to hear Mum and Gramps talking about it, when they thought I couldn't hear. Was it you?"

It's a decent explanation, and better than any he can come up with instead... so, he nods.

"Say... do you think I could make an appointment?"

"Are you having some trouble?"

Donna flushes a little, averting her eyes. "Been havin' these headaches. Migraines, maybe. Nerys says those make you see funny things, yeah? Feels like my head's splittin' open, and I always have the most rubbish thoughts before they hit..."

"What kind of rubbish thoughts?"

"Just loads of X-Files stuff. Tentacle faces holdin' their own brains, telepathic bugs. Think I might know where it comes from... my Gramps used to be wild for all that alien conspiracy rot. Crop circles and probes, y'know, told me the craziest stories. Funny thing is, he hasn't done it in ages. Still glued to his telescope, but I guess he got over the rest. Anyway, you got a card?"

He doesn't, of course, but he writes down Clara's number on Donna's Waitrose receipt, and Donna promises she'll call him Monday.

Once she is out of sight, he sighs and rubs his temples.

_Donna_ is who he needs to focus on right now: _Donna_, and no one and nothing else.

He can erase her memories again, but there's a bigger, scarier question:

_What triggered them to come back in the first place?_


	3. Chapter 3

"A last-minute lunch invitation from Clara Oswald," Martha smiles, sipping her water. "So… when did the Doctor show up?"

Clara plants her face in her hands. "Oh, _God_. Have I seriously turned into _that_ friend?"

"No, and it'd be fine if you had. What's up, then? Aliens can't be invading, Christmas is still weeks away."

"It's not Branston Pickle," Clara whispers. "I-it's _Captain Fez_."

"_Oh_," Martha breathes, fully aware of how significant this is. "_Well_, then."

* * *

**FIVE YEARS EARLIER**

* * *

Of course, it had been Jack who had started the nicknames.

"Okay, this is _ridiculous_," Jack announces, tossing his bottlecap in the air and catching it nimbly. "All these amazing stories I'm hearing are going to waste, because I can't remember which luscious version of him I'm supposed to be undressing in my head. And we're _not_ doing the numbers, the numbers suck. Ladies and gentlemen... tonight, we name the Twelve."

Mickey scratches his head. "Thought it was really thirteen? Clara said..."

"And that's exactly why we're not doing _numbers_ anymore, Mickey," Jack sighs. "Thank you for proving my point."

By the time they hit Peak Drunk — generally defined as whenever Jack starts singing — it has been decided.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Craig announces, holding up the napkin on which he's been scribbling. "I give you, the list. In order of appearance, we have: Beethoven, Ringo, Hefner..."

Sarah Jane lets out a snort that turns into a fit of giggles.

"_Scarfy-Poo_... you still sure about that one?"

"I have never been more certain of anything," Sarah Jane says grandly.

"Totally Cricket Ken Doll, Grumpus the Clown..."

"You do realize that he's going to kill us," Martha laughs. "Any minute now, there's gonna be that screechy TARDIS noise, and _the Oncoming Storm, Vessel of the Final Darkness_ is going to find out you named him... wait, what _did_ we end up with for the current one?"

"It's just... _Snark_," Craig says, holding the napkin up to the light.

"Clara, I am _disappointed_!" Jack cries. "We can't end it like that! Not after the unmitigated triumph that is _Scarfy-Poo_. This is all on you, sweetheart, none of the rest of us have even met him."

Everyone turns in Clara's direction, and she swallows hard. "Sorry... I'll, um. I'll think about it and get back to you?"

Jack's about to unleash a fresh barrage of sass... but when he sees her stricken face, his mouth snaps closed. "We can go with _Snark_ for now. Clara, walk with me a minute?"

He waits until they're outside, then shrugs off his coat and wraps it around Clara's shoulders. "How many Wednesdays has it been, now?"

"Five," she says, pulling the jacket closer against the chill. "He used to hop back and mail me a note when he was going to miss a week, but... he doesn't remember to do that anymore."

"So you just, what? Sit on your front step all day, all dressed up, waiting for him to maybe decide to show?"

Clara sighs, looks at her shoes, is silent for a long time.

"_Branston Pickle_," she finally says. "He can be _Branston Pickle_. That's better than _Snark_."

"That brown stuff you people ruin cheese sandwiches with?"

Clara chuckles. "He eats it with a spoon out of the jar sometimes."

"But that's not why you picked the name."

She shakes her head.

"Chunks of cauliflower and turnips in a sour vinegar sauce. _This_ is how you're summing up the guy you're waiting around for."

"It's an acquired taste," Clara says. "You just have to get used to it."

"If you make it through the whole jar, do you earn a Jammy Dodger?" Jack asks, too-casually.

He sees the low blow hit her, her suddenly-shiny eyes turning to him in wounded surprise.

"That version of him is _gone_, Clara." Jack lays a hand on her shoulder. "He's not... trapped inside there somewhere, listening to everything you say. You can't prove anything to him, you can't do anything for him. _He's never coming back_."

"I know that," Clara says defensively.

Suddenly, Jack pulls her into his arms, one hand sliding down the small of her back, their lips a breath apart. Clara freezes in shock, her eyes enormous.

And then he smirks, stepping back and brandishing the bow tie he's yanked out of her pocket.

"Clara Oswald. You are a _really_ terrible liar."

* * *

"So... how are you holding up?" Martha asks when Clara finishes filling her in on the Doctor's arrival that morning.

"_So_ confused," Clara sighs. "Feelings, you know, but also the..."

The corner of Martha's mouth twitches. "Timey-wimeyness?"

"Yeah. That. I mean... everything that's happening right now, Branston Pickle must have _remembered_, right? It's his past. And for that matter, when my... I mean, uh, _Captain Fez_... when he regenerated... he _knew_ this was coming for me." Clara props her chin in her palm. "It's like when you watch a movie with a twist ending, then have to re-watch the whole film because nothing meant what you thought it meant."

"Maybe not," Martha says. "There's that... _thing_. Malkovich Limits or something. Like, if Young Me crossed paths with Old Me, Young Me would forget it afterwards and not remember it until they were Old Me. Some timestream-crossing thing."

"That rings a bell," Clara's face scrunches up. "Something about... the Brigadier?"

"You should shag him," Martha grins wickedly.

Clara spits water all over her salad. "_What?_"

"You heard me. You should shag him 'til he can't walk straight." Martha leans forward. "I _know_ you want to, and you're on a rather literal deadline. Hell, who knows? Maybe it would change your past for the better."

"I can't _shag him_," Clara sputters.

"You're the one who told me that his granddaughter had a baby with a human. The parts are totally compatible."

"It's not... _that_..." Clara blushes furiously. "It's just... I couldn't stand for him to remember it. You know. _Later_. When he's _not himself_."

"Blimey," Martha winces. "I didn't think about it from _that_ angle."

"After he regenerated... when I realized he was going to treat me like a... well. _You_ know," Clara fiddles with her napkin. "I was so grateful I'd never crossed that line with the one before. I couldn't stand the thought of Branston Pickle remembering me that... well, that _vulnerable_, you know?"

"Oh yeah, I totally get it," Martha nods. "I'd feel the exact same way. Be like the school bully getting a copy of your sexts, right?"

"Oh, he isn't a _bully_, just..." Clara sighs, shrugs. "I suppose it would have been a bit like that."

"What's Captain Fez look like, anyway? All I know is he's the youngest-looking and likes dodgy hats."

"Tall, thin, brown hair, has a quiff that sort of swoops," Clara gestures in a curve over her eye. "Cheekbones you could cut glass with, the loveliest, funniest chin..."

"Really. Well. That's unfortunate."

"What? Why?"

"Because that means the guy behind you, staring at you like you just shot his dog, is probably him."

* * *

Clara whirls to look behind her, then moans in horror. "Oh, God, and he has that insane Time Lord hearing..."

"Apparently so, because here he comes."

"Martha Smith-Jones!" the Doctor exclaims, clapping his hands together and spreading them wide. "Lovely to see you."

"Right," Martha smirks. "So overcome with joy, you had to sit over there and eavesdrop."

"Didn't want to interrupt," he lies, straightening his bow tie. "Just waiting for a conversational lull."

"By _eavesdropping_." Martha takes pity on him, dropping her teasing and pushing her chair back. "Oh, come here, you. I haven't seen you in ages."

"It _is_ wonderful to see you," the Doctor whispers sincerely, kissing her forehead. "I was planning to look you up, actually."

"I don't believe that for a second," Martha informs him.

"No, it's true!" he protests. "I need your help."

"Okay, _now_ I believe you."

The Doctor pouts, dropping into the extra chair at their table. "It's nothing awful... _this_ time. And it's for Donna."

He explains about his conversation with Donna at Turnham Green... how she'd assumed he was her old neurologist and wanted an appointment.

He does not look at Clara once during the entire story.

"And it _would_ be good to check her out with proper medical equipment... but of course, I haven't got a Doctor's office for her to come to..."

"So you want to use mine," Martha guesses.

"Well, it _is _awfully handy that your married name matches my alias," he wheedles, fixing her with his biggest and best puppy eyes.

"Oi! God!" Martha cries, flinching away. "How can you still_ do that _when it's not even the same _face_?"

Now the Doctor _does_ look at Clara — just a brief, flashing glance — but she's pretending to be absorbed in watching the aquarium across the room.

Martha's eyes flick between the two of them. "All right, you can use it. When Donna calls on Monday, tell her you had a cancellation for five-thirty and can see her then. We normally close at five, but I'll stick around."

"Martha, you're _scrumptious_," he grins daffily, then leans back in his chair, pointing a finger at each of them. "I never realized you two were friends. How'd you meet?"

Martha waits a moment to see if Clara will answer, but Clara's still pretending that the fish are the most interesting thing in the universe.

"We had a regular Thursday night thing going for a while, before everyone got so busy," Martha finally shrugs. "Few others dropped in from time to time, especially Sarah Jane, but it was mostly me and Mickey, Craig and Sophie, and Clara and Jack."

"Oh, to be a fly on _that_ wall!" the Doctor exclaims, his voice full of forced, too-hearty cheer. "I'm quite the matchmaker, apparently!"

Now _he's_ pretending to be fascinated by a hanging fern and Clara's staring at him, her mouth twisted in a befuddled frown. It's like they can only look at each other when the other's not looking at them... the world's least terrifying, most ludicrous Weeping Angels.

Martha shakes her head. "Clara, this was your turn to pay, right?"

Clara nods.

"Right, then… I'm out." Martha sets her napkin aside, gathers her purse. "Call me soon, okay? Thanks for lunch."

Martha makes it five steps towards the restaurant's exit before turning on her heel and striding back, leaning over to plant both palms on the table with a thud.

"Couldn't let it go after all. You two need to sort this out, _now_. Go back to Clara's and have a proper, honest chat, because this is ridiculous."

The Doctor opens his mouth to protest, but Martha shuts him up with a brandished finger in his face.

"_Not_ done, Mister, and I've _earned_ this rant, thank you very much. Spent quite a while holdin' your tissue box while you pined for the _last_ diem you didn't carpe, and unless you've got another human clone in a drawer somewhere, you'll have to handle this yourself."

She straightens, adjusting her jacket and looking slightly sheepish. "Well, that was all, so, um... enjoy the rest of your lunch."

Clara and the Doctor watch her walk away, equally dumbstruck.

"_Martha Jones_," Clara breathes, somewhere between shock and awe.

"Oh, believe me, I remember," the Doctor murmurs. "Shakespeare had _quite_ the crush."

* * *

"So," Clara finally says as they're walking back to her house, "How much did you hear, then?"

The Doctor kicks a pebble into a nearby flowerbed. "Can't believe you named me _Captain Fez_. That is _not_ cool."

"So, all of it. _Lovely_." Clara shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "And _Captain Fez_ is Craig's fault. He had his heart dead-set on some really long thing you called yourself once... Captain Roy or Troy or..."

"_Captain Troy Handsome of International Rescue_," the Doctor says, unable to suppress a brief grin.

Clara inclines her head. "That'd be the one. Too long for everyday use, though, so we compromised. And you do love that fez."

"I do love that fez," he admits, sending another pebble flying. "Can't _find_ it, though."

"You gave it away the day we met, remember? But the one I got you for Christmas is in my guest room, if you want it."

He stops in his tracks, his face lighting up. "You get me a new fez for Christmas?"

"Oh, _hell_ — I've ruined the surprise!" she swears, then frowns. "Or wait, have I? That _thing_ Martha mentioned, that Malkovich Effect. Are you going to forget all this?"

"_Blinovitch Limitation Effect_. And... I don't know. If my next incarnation shows up, then I almost certainly will." The Doctor's expression sours. "And, as you _mentioned_, I'd remember everything later."

Clara's cheeks flame, recalling exactly _what_ she and Martha had discussed him remembering later. "Right. Well. Good to keep in mind, then."

They walk in silence for a few awkward moments.

"Clara... if you gave me the fez for Christmas, why is it in your guest room?"

"God, how in the hell does River _do_ this? I know I'm not supposed to tell you spoilers, but you're going to _see_ the bloody room soon enough." She turns towards him with a resigned sigh. "Look, it's not so much a 'guest room' as it is... well... _your_ room. Not that you've ever used it, mind, just that I've got all your stuff in it. The fez, that cowboy hat with the bullet hole, all your bow ties, even your monk robe. And Doctor... you _can't_ ask me why, you just _can't_."

"Okay," the Doctor shrugs, and keeps walking.

Clara has to stand there and blink seven times before she scurries to catch up with him. "Okay? Really? Just... okay? After all that sneaky interrogation you were doing this morning?"

"Don't need to know," the Doctor chirps. "Plus it's quite convenient, really. Never know when you'll need a fresh Stetson."

Clara's eyes narrow. "You look _smug_. Smug is only good when you're doing it at something trying to kill us. Otherwise, it means I'm going to want to punch you soon."

"Clara Oswald, self-described as _the third wheel_," the Doctor crows, intoxicated with his own cleverness. "Discusses my supposedly-dead wife_ in the present tense_! Ha-ha! I've got it, haven't I?"

He twirls around a road sign, looking up at the sky. "Oi, River Song, you bad, bad girl! Should have known you had a few more tricks up your sleeve!"

He does a little victory hop back onto the sidewalk, noting in confusion that Clara is no longer beside him.

She is, in fact, about four meters behind him... completely ignoring him and texting on her cellphone.

"_Claraaaaaaaaa_," the Doctor whines, "I was just the Sherlock Holmes of verb conjugations, and you completely missed it."

Her head snaps up, and she flicks her phone case closed with one precise motion. "Oh, I didn't miss anything."

Something about her clipped, Mary Poppins tone is setting off a million alarm bells inside the Doctor's head.

"Who were you texting?" he asks suspiciously.

She barrels past him on the sidewalk without a glance. "Craig and Sophie."

"Why?"

"Because you're staying with _them_ until the TARDIS comes back."

"_What?_" He runs a bit, arms akimbo, to catch up with her. "_Why?_"

She fixes him with a laser glare. "_You're_ the Sherlock Holmes of verb conjugations. Why don't _you_ figure it out."


End file.
